He could go to the bank afterwards, but he might not have complied so readily if his vanity had not been tickled. The Justices of that day bore a heavier burden than their successors--_hodie nominis umbrae_.
With no police force they had to take the initiative in the detection as well as in the punishment of crime. Marked men, belonging to a privileged class, they had to do invidious things and to enforce obnoxious laws. They represented the executive, and they shared alike its odium and its fearlessness. For hardly anything is more remarkable in the history of that time than the courage of the men who held the reins. Unpopular, assailed by sedition, undermined by conspiracy, and pressed upon by an ever-growing public feeling, the few held on unblenching, firm in the belief that repression was the only policy, and doubting nothing less than their right to rule. They dined and drank, and presented a smiling face to the world, but great and small they ran their risks, and that they did not go unscathed, the fate of Perceval and of Castlereagh, the collapse of Liverpool, and the shortened lives of many a lesser man gave proof.
But even among the firm there are degrees, and in all bodies it is on the shoulders of one or two that the onus falls. Of the one or two in Aldshire, the Squire was one. My lord might fill the chair, Sir Charles might assent, but it was to Griffin that their eyes wandered when an unpleasant decision had to be taken or the public showed its teeth. And the old man knew that this was so, and was proud of it.
To-day, however, as he watched the long hand move round the clock, he had less patience than usual. Because he must be at the bank before it closed, everything seemed to work against him. The witnesses were sullen, the evidence dragged, Acherley went off on a false scent, and being whipped back, turned crusty. The Squire fidgeted and scowled, and then, twenty minutes before the bank closed, and when with his eyes on the clock he was growing desperate, the chairman suggested that they should break off for a quarter of an hour. "Confound me, if I can sit any longer," he said. "I must have a mouthful of something, Griffin."
The Squire seldom took more than a hunch of bread at mid-day and could do without that, but he was glad to agree, and a minute later he was crossing the Market Place towards the bank. It happened that business was brisk at the moment. Rodd, at a side desk, was showing a customer how to draw a cheque. At the main counter a knot of farmers were producing, with protruding tongues and hunched shoulders, something which might pass for a signature. Two clerks were aiding them, and for a moment the Squire stood unseen and unregarded. Impatiently he tapped the counter with his stick, on which Rodd saw him, and, deserting his task, came hurriedly to him.
The Squire thrust his cheque across the counter. "In gold," he said.
The cashier scanned the cheque, his hand in the till. "Four, seven, six-ten," he murmured. Then his face grew serious, and without glancing at the Squire he consulted a book which lay beside him.
"Four, seven, six-ten," he repeated. "I am afraid--one moment, if you please, sir!" Breaking off he made two steps to a door behind him and disappeared through it.
He returned a moment later, followed by Ovington himself. The banker's face was grave, but his tone retained its usual blandness. "Good day, Mr. Griffin," he said. "You are drawing the whole of your balance, I see. I trust that that does not mean that you are--making any change?"
"That is what it does mean, sir," the Squire answered.
"Of course, it is entirely your affair----"
"Entirely."
"But we are most anxious to accommodate you. If there is anything that we can put right, any cause of dissatisfaction----"
"No," said the Squire grimly. "There is nothing that you can put right. It is only that I do not choose to do business with my family."
The banker bowed with dignity. The incident was not altogether unexpected. "With most people, a connection of the kind would be in our favor," he said.
"Not with me. And as my time is short----"
The banker bowed. "In gold, I think? May we not send it for you? It will be no trouble."
"No, I thank you," the Squire grunted, hating the other for his courtesy. "I will take it, if you please."
"Put it in a strong bag, Mr. Rodd," Ovington said. "I shall still hope, Mr. Griffin, that you will think better of it." And, bowing, he wished the Squire "Good day," and retired.
Rodd was a first-class cashier, but he felt the Squire eyes boring into him, and he was twice as long in counting out the gold as he should have been. The consequence was that when the Squire left the bank, the hour had struck, Dean's was closed, and the Bench was waiting for him. He paused on the steps considering what he should do.
He could not leave so large a sum unguarded in the Justices' room, nor could he conveniently take it with him into the Court.
At that moment his eyes fell on Purslow, the draper, who was standing at the door of his shop, and he crossed over to him. "Here, man, put this in your safe and turn the key on it," he said. "I shall call for it in an hour or two."
"Honored, I am sure," said the gratified tradesman, as he took the bag. But when he felt its weight and guessed what was in it, "Excuse me, sir. Hadn't you better seal it, sir?" he said. "It seems to be a large sum."
"No need. I shall call for it in an hour. Lock it up yourself, Purslow. That's all."
Purslow, as pleased as if the Squire had given him a large order, assured him that he would do so, and the old man stalked across to the court, where business kept him, fidgeting and impatient, until hard on seven. Nor did he get away then without unpleasantness.
For unluckily Acherley, who had been charged to approach him about the Railroad, had been snubbed in the course of the day. Always an ill-humored man, he saw his way to pay the Squire out, and chose this moment to broach the delicate subject. He did it with as little tact as temper.
"'Pon my honor, Griffin, you know--about this Railroad," he said, tackling the old man abruptly, as they were putting on their coats.
"You really must open your eyes, man, and move with the times. The devil's in it if we can stand still always. You might as well go back to your old tie-wig, you know. You are blocking the way, and if you won't think of your own interests, you ought to think of the town. I can tell you," bluntly, "you are making yourself d--d unpopular there."
Very seldom of late had anyone spoken to the Squire in that tone, and his temper was up in a minute. "Unpopular? I don't understand you," he snapped.
"Well, you ought to!"
"Unpopular? What's that? Unpopular, sir! What the devil have we in this room to do with popularity? I make my horse go my way, I don't go his, nor ask if he likes it. Damn your popularity!"
Acherley had his answer on his tongue, but Woosenham interposed.
"But, after all, Griffin," he said mildly, "we must move with the times--even if we don't give way to the crowd. There's no man whose opinion I value more than yours, as you know, but I think you do us an injustice."
"An injustice?" the Squire sneered. "Not I! The fact is, Woosenham, you are letting others use you for a stalking horse. Some are fools, and some--I leave you to put a name to them! If you'd give two thoughts to this Railroad yourself, you'd see that you have nothing to gain by it, except money that you can do without! While you stand to lose more than money, and that's your good name!"
Sir Charles changed color. "My good name?" he said, bristling feebly.
"I don't understand you, Griffin."
One of the others, seeing a quarrel in prospect, intervened. "There, there," he said, hoping to pour oil on the troubled waters. "Griffin doesn't mean it, Woosenham. He doesn't mean----"
"But I do mean it," the old man insisted. "I mean every word of it."
He felt that the general sense was against him, but that was nothing to him. Wasn't he the oldest present, and wasn't it his duty to stop this folly if he could? "I tell you plainly, Woosenham," he continued, "it isn't only your affair, if you lend your name to this business.
You take it up, and a lot of fools who know nothing about it, who know less, by G--d, than you do, will take it up too! And will put their money in it and go daundering up and down quoting you as if you were Solomon! And that tickles you! But what will they say of you if the affair turns out to be a swindle--another South Sea Bubble, by G--d!
And half the town and half the country are ruined by it! What'll they say of you then--and of us?"
Acherley could be silent no longer. "Nobody's going to be ruined by it!" he retorted--he saw that Sir Charles looked much disturbed.
"Nobody! If you ask me, I think what you're saying is d--d nonsense."
"It may be," the Squire said sternly. "But just another word, please.
I want you to understand, Woosenham, that this is not your affair only. It touches every one of us. What are we in this room? If we are those to whom the administration of this county is entrusted, let us act as such--and keep our hands clean. But if we are a set of money-changers and bill-mongers," with contempt, "stalking horses for such men as Ovington the banker, dirtying our hands with all the tricks of the money market--that's another matter. But I warn you--you can't be both. And for my part--we don't any longer wear swords to show we are gentlemen, but I'm hanged if I'll wear an apron or have anything to do with this business. A railroad? Faugh! As if horses'
legs and Telford's roads aren't good enough for us, or as if tea-kettles will ever beat the Wonder coach--fifteen hours to London."
Acherley had been restrained with difficulty, and he now broke loose.
"Griffin," he cried, "you're damned offensive! If you wore a sword as you used to----"
"Pooh! Pooh!" said the Squire and shrugged his shoulders, while Sir Charles, terribly put out both by the violence of the scene and by the picture which the Squire had drawn, put in a feeble protest. "I must say," he said, "I think this uncalled for, Griffin. I think you might have spared us this. You may not agree with us----"
"But damme if he shall insult us!" Acherley cried, trembling with passion.
"Pooh, pooh!" said the Squire again. "I'm an old man, and it is useless to talk to me in that strain. I've spoken my mind, and----"
"Ay, and you horse two of the coaches!" Acherley retorted. "And make a profit by that, dirty or no! But where'd your profit be, if your father who rode post to London had stood pat where he was? And set himself against coaches as you set yourself against the railroad?"
That was a shrewd hit and the Squire did not meet it. Instead, "Well, right or wrong," he said, "that's my opinion. And right or wrong, no railroad crosses my land, and that's my last word!"
"We'll see about that," Acherley answered, bubbling with rage. "There are more ways than one of cooking a goose."
"Just so. But----," with a steady look at him, "which is the cook and which is the goose, Acherley? Perhaps you'll find that out some day."
And the Squire clapped on his hat--he had already put on his shabby old driving coat. But he had still a word to say. "I'm the oldest man here," he said, looking round upon them, "and I may take a liberty and ask no man's pleasure. You, Woosenham, and you gentlemen, let this railroad alone. If you are going to move at twenty-five miles an hour, then, depend upon it, more things will move than you wot of, and more than you'll like. Ay, you'll have movement--movement enough and changes enough if you go on! So I say, leave it alone, gentlemen.
That's my advice."
He went out with that and stamped down the stairs. He had not sought the encounter, and, now that he was alone, his knees shook a little under him. But he had held his own and spoken his mind, and on the whole he was content with himself.